Category: smut

lust: a follow up meditation

It is as though I have two heartbeats. This is how you make me feel. You give me fucking tachycardia, and then in a breath, my heart softens. I want you to lay with me; I want you to read to me. I want to read to you. Soak up Johnny Cash’s entire catalogue with you in me so I can taste your sin.

I care not for coffee, phone calls, dirty dishes, washing, paperwork. It all seems so unnecessary and futile, so I forget and clutch your waist with my thighs, squeezing the breath out of you. It’s like I want to make you hurt, but for reasons only I know. Then you catch your breath and surrender heavily into my neck.

Stars hail down on us like confetti and I want to take you across the street to the river; get you alone, cup your face in my hands. Simple things. It is all simple.

You make me want to strike piano keys and suck on cherries and peel pears and beat my boots into the ground until my foot bones splinter and bleed.

And all of this terrifies me.

Like water snatching at ropes, you pull me in like a tide, then let me go. Spank my rosy arse in the night-time. Hell, even in the daytime; such sweet agony. You’re someone I don’t want to leave behind.

And all of this terrifies me.

It’s like:

shovelling wet sand up a mountain of ash

exploding fruit

writing that killer line

hitting a money note

swallowing sour milk

a stitch in my belly

a sliced finger

a fresh burn

a lime tree bursting with fruit

sun splintering through clouds

rain on dry land.

So many things.

And all of this terrifies me.

I watch you and your mouth and see it’s a little lopsided. I could unfurl that crooked grin with an eager tongue.

In the afternoon, we wrestle; bodies laconic with fatigue and marks from hard fingers. I pin your arms and you to wrangle my body to the other side of the bed and I’m yours – at your mercy and you know it; my sex wet all because of a lopsided grin.

I can’t tear my eyes, hands, mouth off you.

And all of this terrifies me.

Providore

There is no indecision.

Just the untangling of hair

you manage to do so elegantly

just as your door rises akimbo to the air.

 

The clang of chain takes a crack

at chipping away your softness,

but nothing can touch you.

 

You graft to my pupil; that absence of fear

swimming in your eyes; sailing on your skin

to a gentler harbour.

 

Urban cowboy – smile a tripwire.

Some mornings you are quiet in stare,

cutting a lonely figure, looking past what is in front of you

(restless rivers run deep)

and there are days your body lopes,

moving around all limber like you’ve just walked out of the ocean,

having washed away time-worn algorithms

by holding your breath under water until the panic becomes peace.

 

*

 

The heels of my boots skip across asphalt to cross the road.

Stain my neck with your wine soaked mouth, pour milk into my coffee,

hoist me onto the table in the cantina –

layering up my skirt and ruining my finery.

 

Do you sell boxfuls of faith?

Because you’re almost here, but just about gone.

Or do I kiss you from a tree, sticky with pregnant fruit

only to fall into your ripened hands?

lust: a short meditation

You’ve mapped me with your mouth and breath –

the topography always new when you put your tongue to work

 

it makes us and it breaks us

 

Bones ache from inattention, but you know when I need reopening.

You always call after liquor; I try to get on the other side of you (not bodily).

When I am alone, I am always here. You are always there.

I should remember this.

I should return a reminder to myself

(rubber pops against my skin, spare in its thickness)

 

We see the same sunset – late, hot and pink like our mouths –

we drink from the same bottle, share the same un-control of all this.

Cigarette wrists dangle and dance at your hips –

hips I have held while I’ve had you in my mouth.

 

I choose the light.

I control the heat.

I turn the dials.

You are always on and I am always just here –

a matted frond flailing in the lambent light of our last goodbye.

Image

Poetry in a record store (kinda like love in an elevator)

Tonight I was one of the blessed few who sidled into Jet Black Cat Music – a darling record store in West End (fuck, I love my community!!) – where performance poets Eleanor Jackson and Betsy Turcot performed their heart and souls out in ‘She Stole My Every Rock and Roll’ as part of Brisbane’s Anywhere Theatre Festival.

It was raw, cuttingly sad and tells the tale of two lesbian lovers – of how they came to be together, and then how after ‘rock, paper, scissors’, they weren’t.

I couldn’t help but think that I was in the middle of something *very* special. No fireworks, no bullshit, no pomposity. Just two girls in a quiet and warm space telling us a love story.

20120518-221353.jpg

20120518-221410.jpg